


The Boxer

by castielslovesong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Boxing, Brothers, Busking, Cities, Emotional, Emotions, Homelessness, Hurt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Fighting, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Music, Oneshot, Performing for money, Protect, Sacrifice, fight, mumford and sons, musician - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielslovesong/pseuds/castielslovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel AU Oneshot.</p><p>Sam wants to be a big shot lawyer and Dean's prepared to do whatever it takes.</p><p>Follow the lyrics of his first big hit as he goes through the journey that landed him a home, his brother's college fund, freedom and best of all... Castiel.</p><p>Sure, Gabe's a bit of a prick, but get a couple of chocolate bars down him and he's tolerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boxer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a oneshot, an idea I got from Mumford and Son's - The Boxer (hence title and lyrics throughout) -> I don't own that.
> 
> Once I get an idea in my head I have to get it out; this is nothing like any of my other works so it's a oneshot wooo!
> 
> Hope you like, please comment if you have time... I really would appreciate feedback lovelies :3
> 
> Peace Out Bitches -xo

_“I am just a poor boy_   
_Though my story seldom told_   
_I squandered my resistance_   
_For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises.”_

All Sam ever wanted was to be ‘normal’. At the time, Dean scoffed at the idea, because what really was normal? Each person should have their own interpretation of normal; that way we wouldn’t be so easily trapped by society’s oppression and rules stipulating the way we should live.

After Mom died, things pretty much went to shit for the two Winchester boys. Dean, 4 at the time, ran from his now flaming inferno home with Sam cradled in his arms. Ever since, their home became the back of the loved Impala and shoddy motel rooms. Their Dad, coping with the loss of his wife and singlehandedly raising two sons, crumbled. He would leave them alone for hours on end, trusting Dean to take care of his brother. When Dean got older, his Dad would go away for longer.

Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks.

Eventually, the wad of notes ran out. That’s when Dean learnt what people would pay to watch. He wandered the streets, no older than 7 when it first happened, offering to sing, dance, play music and (with his father’s military approach to raising him) throw knives.

Performing for money, like the poor bears and monkeys in the hands of abusive humans, covered Sam’s school trips, his lunch money and brought him new clothes. Because Dean had watched one too many times as he and his brother were picked on for being poor, for being stupid, which Sam absolutely was not, and for being different.

  
_“All lies and jests_   
_Still a man hears_   
_What he wants to hear_   
_And disregards the rest.”_

By the time he was 10, Dean had had a fairly interesting and less than conventional childhood. He had scars from getting caught hustling, mended bones from fighting men and boys alike, faded and sunken bruises from the times when he lost his father to the bottle.

He had tried to get his Dad help. John needed the help; Dean was sick of lying to teachers as they ask why he moves so much, how did you get that bruise, why do you keep falling asleep in class?

Every time Dean would lie his way out of it. No matter what he said however, not every person was satisfied with his answer. He was caught, throwing knives, being underage in a bar, selling trinkets he and Sam had collected from the various motels they’d stayed in that state.

And he warned his Dad. Yet, his Dad was adamant that this was ‘for the best’, that this would be the job, the lead that would direct them to the son of a bitch that killed Mary. Dean missed his Mom, he often wondered what she’d think of John, of Sammy, of him now. Sam’s such a smart kid; he could only hope that someday he will have the childhood that other kids take for granted.

  
_“When I left my home and my family_   
_I was no more than a boy_   
_In the company of strangers_   
_In the quiet of the railway stations running scared.”_

Sam wanted to go to college. He was going to be a big shot lawyer, and he couldn’t care less about what their father had to say about it.

If he received John’s consent, it would hardly matter. The full ride, scholarship, that Sam was pretty much guaranteed, wouldn’t be enough. Dean spent years trying to get them to skate by with food in the fridge; there was no way he was going to be able to afford to pay for Sam’s tuition. Doesn’t mean he didn’t want to, but those were the facts.

The trail for Mom’s killer had gone cold. Sam was only 12 and Dean 16 when the drinking habits of John Winchester were taking over. He would be gone for months, and then one day, he was just back. Sam and John fought, tooth and nail, about _everything._ At least they were settled into one place now, a 2 bedroom home in South Dakota.

Dean read a book once. He became lost as the character ran away from home, he ran away from the abuse and the poverty, finding hope and money in the big city. It was his story...

He finally knew what he had to do.

Scrawling a letter, explaining his absence for a while, he checked on Sammy one last time.

 

_You’re going to college little brother, I’m going to find work._

_I’ll send the money here, don’t let Dad get it Sam; get Uncle Bobby to put it in an account._

 

 Carefully, not wanting to wake Sam, he placed the note by his head. He packed quickly and quietly, just a change of clothes and a small amount of money.

The light from the TV flickered over his father’s docile features. He was asleep. Thank God. the door to his home closed with a gentle click.

Stepping out into the brisk night, Dean headed for the road. Silently, he trudged along the dirt, hoping for the headlights of a car to illuminate his path. Or maybe drag him home. With a shake of his head, he pulled the collar of his Dad’s leather jacket further up his neck, shielding him from the cold while his fingers played absently with the amulet Sam gave him at Christmas more than 5 years ago. He wasn’t himself without it.

Eventually, he made it to the old railway station. Only one train ran from here to the city, so in the cold light of the lamp, when the tracks squeaked and groaned, he stepped onto the rickety train into an empty compartment. Dean welcomed the time alone. He was, after all, just a ‘kid’ going out into the big wide world. And he’d do it all again, to give Sammy a chance.

The first day found him in Iowa. Between bus trips and sneaking onto trains, he had no money left for food. But he could not delay. The more time he wasted, the longer it would be before he could go home.

Grumbling from the absence of substance, his stomach again reminded him that after 2 days, one bottle of water and an energy bar are not enough to sustain a 16 year old growing boy. Alas, he ignored it, drawing his notepad from his bag and continuing to scribble lyrics to songs that no one would hear.

Amongst strangers, he would find that there a lot more to be found out here than just Sammy’s college fund.

  
_“Laying low seeking out the poor quarters_   
_Where the ragged people go_   
_Looking for the places_   
_Only they would know.”_

He was slumped in another nondescript doorway, only this time in Chicago. Having been here for a week, he has made a grand total of $400, hustling and doing ‘dangerous’ stunts that he’s been performing since he was a kid.

In the lowest of the low, trembling from the cold, he hears a gravelly voice from the behind the dumpsters beside him. He stands, ducking low, forcing his aching limbs and starved stomach into movement. Cautiously, he made his way to the side of the cover in the backstreet.

Elucidated by the moon in the sky and the lights from the doors, there a man, just taller than Dean himself was talking to a much shorter man. From the corner of his eye, he saw another figure advancing on the apparently unaware strangers. Steeling himself, Dean watched as the figure drew something from his pocket. It looked like a gun.

“Hey!” Without a second thought, Dean sprang from his crouched position, getting him a surprised grunt, a less than manly shout and the undivided attention of the assailant. All this in a matter of seconds, because then Dean was controlling the hand with the weapon, smashing his hand repeatedly against the brick wall. The man’s hand caved, dropping the gun with a barely noticed metallic clang. Quickly, Dean kicked it behind him, drawing back to dodge two blows. He landed his own on the man’s ribs and then turned him around, his bicep closing off the trachea in the struggling man’s throat. Seconds ticked on... Cocking his head, he watched the eyes roll back into the attacker’s skull.

He dropped the unconscious body, breathing heavily from the exertion with barely any energy or suitable sleep. When he turned around, he completely forgot the reason behind his midnight fight.

The two men stared at him.

“He’s pretty good, eh Cassie?” The short one spoke first. He had slightly long chestnut hair and his hazel eyes danced, grin plastering his face.

The other man stared inquisitively at Dean, and as Dean acknowledged him, he found himself caught in the stunning blue of the man’s eyes.

He coughed, breaking the silence; he turned, picking up the gun and handing it to the shorter one, Cassie or whatever remained stoic and staring.

“You’re er, welcome? Have a good night and stay safe.”

The man with the gun pointed it at Dean crookedly, smiling, a natural feature of his face. “Did you just hand a stranger a loaded gun?”

The taller man’s attention shifted for a moment to the short one.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Safety’s on, dumbass.”

Twitching in his jacket, he walked away from the men and back to his dumpster. The corner he had resided himself in was shielded by the wind, while giving Dean enough perspective to have the upper hand (tactically) around him.

There was a sharp stabbing in his stomach and he blatantly tuned out the hushed voices of the men near him. He opened his partly ripped and filthy backpack, silently fearing that his food supply would be as empty as his stomach. Inside, he found half a snickers bar. Closing his eyes, he hurriedly swallowed the sticky sweet calories.

They followed him, though, and his brightened mood lasted a split second.

“How long have you been here?”

“Who cares?” Dean grumbled. He really just wanted them to leave.

“My name is Castiel,” the taller man spoke, “And this is my brother Gabriel. Forgive me, but after you saved us from being shot, I am obliged to care somewhat.”

“What your parents wanted you to get bullied or something?” He snorted.

A confused expression settled over Castiel’s face, but Gabriel rolled his eyes exasperated by the whole situation.

“We’re named after angels genius. I kind of moonlight as Loki, but that’s a story for when you know me better.” The fucker winked at him, shoving an empty wrapper into his pocket and pulling a new candy bar out. “So,” he said chewing on the bar, chocolate smearing over his teeth, “Where you headed?”

After a long period of silence, Dean sighed. “New York.”

Dean was mostly watching Gabriel, because he was speaking, but he made the mistake of meeting Castiel’s gaze every now and then, finding him unblinking boring a hole in his face.

“What a coincidence, eh Cassie! That’s where we’re headed.”

“So?”

“Would you like a ride Mr...”

“Wow, I’ve been called dumb before but you guys really take the prize.”

“It’s an approximately 12 hour drive and you look like you require sleep. Please, we would like to help. You saved our lives, after all.” Cas sounded more sincere but Dean was still wary.

“Well Cas, that’s lovely, but how do I know that you aren’t some crazy kidnapping rapists or something?”

He watched as Gabriel nudged Cas’ side.

The man’s lips turned to something that resembled a slight smile. “Something tells me you could handle yourself, not that we are.”

Dean nodded, filtering through this new information. They are offering a free ride and he _really_ could use a good night’s sleep.

“Ok.”

 “What’s your name kid?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

  
_“Asking only workman's wages_   
_I come looking for a job_   
_But I get no offers_   
_Just a come on_   
_From the whores on seventh avenue_   
_I do declare there were times_   
_When I was so lonesome_   
_I took some comfort there.”_

He guessed this is where they parted ways. Watching them walk into the block, he waved goodbye to Cas and Gabe. He sighed heavily, slumping in another doorway to sleep. The drive with those two was exhausting, and he still didn’t have any money. At least, he supposed, he had sent the $400 to Bobby (for Sammy’s account naturally) so that’s a start. Oh and he’s in The Big Apple now. There were bound to be jobs here!

A loud bang of a steel door on brick made him jump as light exploded out into the alley. Shadows of men stretched out, making their way round to where Dean was huddled. He braced himself for another battle.

The tension drooped from his body when the figure of the taller man rounded the dumpster. He frowned.

“What are you doing?”

Dean looked at him, incredulously; self consciously zipped his bag back up.

“Searchin’ for Narnia, what’s it to you?”

“What is that, some kind of new drug?” The man practically spat in Dean’s face.

“What dude, no. I don’t do that shit. It’s a book, you could use some culturing mate.” It came out probably more aggressive than he meant for it too, however the bloke had just insinuated that he would do drugs –he never has and he never will- and he didn’t even know what Narnia was the dipshit.

“Oh... That’s good. You can fight-“

“Cassie stop flirting and just ask him already.” Gabe rounded the dumpster, chewing on some sort of candy and suddenly Dean didn’t like his vantage point from the floor so much. Slowly, backed as far to the wall as he could go, so that his jacket physically scraped against the crumbling brickwork, he stood up to face the men. Things were too good to be true, he knew it.

“Of course Gabriel because you are such a natural charmer, you pointed a gun at him to say hello.” The man seemed vaguely irritated at Gabriel’s conduct and thanks to good old Winchester luck, Dean’s stomach chose that precise moment to protest at the food that he could actually sense in the area. He mentally kicked himself; he’s gone longer without food before.

Cas raised an eyebrow at him.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

The friends eyed each other before Gabriel stepped forward, a chocolate bar in his hand.

Dean took a deep breath, putting on his best fake smile. “S’none of your business, and sorry, I don’t take candy from strangers.”

The taller man smiled.

“My apologies, I thought we knew each other enough now? We are... Entrepreneurs, of a kind. We work for people interested in getting fighters, the pays good and we were wondering if you were interested.”

Dean stared at them, biting his lip nervously. In the dull that had encompassed the alley once more, he could not judge either man’s face.

 “How much are we talking?”

“Per fight? At least $1000. You understand that this is not the most legal means of boxing.”

“Yeah I got that, Starsky and Hutch. Fine, but you’re throwing in a burger for me right now, just to sweeten the deal.”

Gabriel grinned like a maniac and Castiel stared a little while longer.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

They were seated in some all night diner and for the first time, with proper sleep and no starvation, Dean got a good look at his new friends.

Castiel had the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen; the man stared too much but Dean was starting to not care. He had short brown hair, ruffled like that of bird feathers and was lean, at least Dean supposed since he had a long tan trench coat that swamped his features. In short – he was gorgeous.

Returning from his call with ‘Crowley’ Gabriel gave him probably the first genuine smile of the ordeal. He looked older than Cas, but his nature was far less... Stick up your ass. Needless to say, he had already pranked Dean twice, waking up to a clown mask would have scared Sammy considerably more than him, however.

Neither man looked particularly old though – Gabe in his late 20’s and Cas no more than 23.

_Not a lot older than me..._

Chewing on the last remnants of a greasy burger, he slurped his drink. Once finished, he was ushered back into their car; he really missed the Impala now. They drove with the gentle hums of Led Zeppelin to meet Crowley.

“So, this entrepreneuring you guys do... What exactly is it that you do?”

“We are recruitment soldiers.” Cas shrugged.

“We used to fight, or at least he did, Cassie here was always the dangerous one. I’m the smart one, in case you hadn’t caught on. Then I left, Cassie got in trouble, I came back, now we find people who are good enough to hack the big underground leagues.” Gabe chimed, tapping the side of the car window in tune to the song.

“Huh. And that guy from the alley?” He was pointedly ignoring the fact that Gabriel, the older brother, had left Cas all alone in a fighting ring. He couldn’t imagine ever leaving Sammy to fend for himself – oh wait, he did. Shit.

“Alastair. He kind of hates us.” Gabe sighed, looking over at Cas before catching Dean’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “What about you hotshot, what are you doing in the big city? Or rather, starving on the streets of a big city?”

“Just looking for a job, man. Just looking for a job.” He replied bitterly. There were 1000 and one responses to that question, most of them pretty hard on his Dad. And the man that killed his Mom. He sighed and watched as the streets flicked by the window; the car turned down a backstreet to a club called The Crossroads.

“Are you ready Dean?” Cas said from the front seat, hands gripping the wheel fiercely.

Nodding, he followed them out of the car, past the guards on the back door and down a corridor that was fragranced with a mixture of odour sleaze and pheromones. Cas stopped before the last door. He knocked twice. A British accent answered.

“Come in.”

The door swung open to reveal a well dressed man, with short brown hair, feet up on a huge desk in the middle of the room. There were two scantily dressed women (dressed as an angel and a devil) beside him who were shooed away as soon as the man saw who it was.

He shadowed Cas’ steps, Gabe trailing after to close the door. Dean immediately drew himself up to attention, hands clasped behind his back, head held high, and then he realized that this wasn’t his dad snapping his fingers, shouting an order. This could be his new boss but he didn’t slump any under his scrutinizing gaze.

“So this is the little squirrel that saved you from Al.” He addressed Castiel and Gabriel, his gaze not wavering from Dean’s, “What were you boy, military?”

The cold English accent made Dean’s skin crawl. “No Sir.”

He made a noncommittal noise then sat up, arms leaning on his desk. “Castiel, Gabriel, do sit down. You’re making me uncomfortable. You, squirrel, come ‘ere.”

As Dean stepped forward, he heard the door click behind him and his gaze switched quickly to Cas, who looked kind of constipated, then back to Crowley.

“You weren’t in the military? Who taught you to stand like that?” He drawled.

“My Dad.” He hoped it came out confident, because even admitting such a thing sent something sharp straight through his heart.

“Your Dad? Where is dear old Pops?” Frowning, Dean shifted the weight from his right to left leg. He really didn’t see how any of this was relevant.

“Not here.”

“Ooh, a mouth on you. How old are you kid?”

Dean winced at the word ‘kid’. He may only be 16 but he was far more mature than a kid. He rolled his eyes, “What is this, a lonely hearts add?”

The words left his mouth and were met by the hammering blow of a bat to his ribs from behind. Bending forward, he regained his breath, and, slightly wheezing, he forced himself back to the standing position.

“16, I’m 16.” He coughed. Uneasy at where this was going, he shot Cas a look who, to his credit, was glaring daggers at Crowley.

“And what is a fine young gentleman, such as yourself, doing in New York without supervision at 16?”

Despite himself, he snarked back, “Heard the burgers are top notch, Chicago had pretty good pizz-“

The bat landed a second blow to the backs of his legs, sending him buckling forward, hands grasping desperately on the desk to keep him from collapsing completely. Crowley poured himself a drink; he looked neither fazed nor surprised by the way the ‘interview’ was going.

“This goes easier on you if you just answer the questions.”

Pulling himself up, Dean shook his head at the man. “I... I need the money.”

“Drugs?”

“No.” He ground out.

“Then what, pray tell?”

The audible swing of the bat was abruptly halted by Dean’s hand catching it mid swing. He twisted it out of the batsman’s hand and slammed it on top of Crowley’s desk.

“My brother wants to go to college. You might have noticed,” He gestured up and down himself, “I’m not exactly the poster boy for Gucci.”

“But you could be,” the man winked, downing the last of his drink. Dean was bristling, a retaliation on the tip of his tongue when Crowley continued, “You’re in. Get yourself cleaned up, Castiel make sure he has clean clothes to wear. Then come find me.”

Angrily, he placed all of his emotions in keeping walking straight, walking after Cas, Gabe had left to go to the bar. They came to a door and entered into a small room with a bathroom and a closet. Inside and shielded from all eyes, except the softer blue of Cas, he fell heavily onto the chair.

“What the hell Cas! How am I supposed to fight if I have already been beaten up?!”

“How old is your brother?”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face and moved himself to the sink and small mirror above it. His reflection stared back. Stubble hugging to the drawn contours of his face, bags deep under his faded green eyes. Turning on the tap, he splashed cold water over his face, breathing in the sting on his weary features.

“12.”

When he looked at Cas in the corner of the mirror, he saw the pity washed over his face. He was holding a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a plain black t-shirt, waiting patiently for Dean to be ready.

“You sacrificed everything for your brother.”

Dean peeled his Dad’s leather jacket from his shoulders, grimacing at the twang of pain from his ribs.

“Yeah well, he’s all the family I got.”

He turned to look at Cas, “Are you going to stay and watch me get changed?” Cas was closer than he remembered causing him to jump, “Cas, personal space man.”

“My apologies. I do not want to leave you alone, I have been specifically tasked with watching over you.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to stare. He fidgeted, licking his lips as he thought. It wasn’t that he was squeamish about getting undressed in front of Cas, just that it played out a little bit differently in his head.

“Fine.”

Carefully, trying not to disturb his throbbing ribs, he drew his shirt over his head. Inspecting the damage, he saw the already forming bruise on his chest. From the side, he heard a grunt. He had forgotten just how many scars he had.

“Dean,” Damn, and just how deep Cas’ voice was, “How did you get those?” Cas looked like he wanted to reach out and touch him and Dean was kind of relieved, he was wearing too tights trousers for that.

“This isn’t my first fight Cas.” He chuckled humourlessly. _Been fighting pretty much my whole life._ The shirt in his hand became ripped in two; he wrapped the cotton around his torso to keep his wounds straight. When Cas handed him the shirt, their fingers brushed, and he swallowed thickly.

He shucked off the jeans, holes in the knees and worn all over, quickly pulling on the trackies.  

“Thanks Cas. For everything.”

To his credit, the man didn’t look like he knew whether to take that as a compliment or an insult; maybe it was a bit of both.

So he went to his first underground fight.

He was bloody and bruised by the end – he had won. Wasting his looks on a cheap fuck, he drank and buried himself in a nameless woman till he forgot why he ran away in the first place.

  
_"Then I'm laying down my winter clothes_   
_And wishing I was home going home_   
_Where the New York City winters_   
_Aren't bleeding me, leading me going home."_   


It continued in a pattern of fighting, collecting the money, sending it to Bobby’s, drinking and a string of one night stands. However, he was making enough to keep himself in a 1 bedroom apartment in the worst side of town. It wasn’t much but it was better than beside a dumpster.

Winter came. His home was freezing without heating. Past everything they had been through, Cas kept himself completely detached from Dean after hours.

Then Alastair came along.

It was nearly Christmas and Dean had been working every night, spending the day serving the bar and the night fighting in the ring.

At first, he thought it was a new rule or fight type. But his eyes caught the sickly white eyes. Since when did anyone have white eyes for fuck sake!

So, under the orders of Alastair and then Crowley, Dean found himself in worse and worse fights.

They were harder; he was getting hurt more seriously than before, physically pushed to the limits of his body.

One day, bare chest heaving and muscles screaming for him to stop, his opponent held the knife to his throat.

“Time to work for me grasshopper.”

For a solid month, he didn’t speak or see Cas. He left New York with a bag over his head and a wad of $10,000 in a letter to his brother.

And he hurt a lot of people.

He was drinking, too much to be healthy, his liver drowning in a polluted sea. Until, when his hope had sunk to the bottom of the deepest ocean, those bright sapphire eyes rescued him once more. He was raised from perdition and maybe things could be better?

 

Sitting in a shabby motel room at the desk, head in his hands, (boy the memories) he didn’t see what Cas was doing on the bed.

“You have very nice handwriting.”

Intrigued, he looked up. There in the hands of his best friend, was his notepad. The notepad that had been with him since he was around 8 years old.

“Cas,” he choked on the tears threatening to spill out, “Why’d you find me?”

“Because you deserve to be saved.”

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. It made Dean wonder, before he was cut off by Cas again.

“Did you write this?”

“I’ve written a lot of things in that book Cas.” Walking over, he situated himself on the bed beside the one Cas was lounging on. The poor guy looked exhausted.

“The Boxer?” He inquired, wide eyes looking up to meet Dean’s on the bed opposite him.

“Yeah, before Alastair...”

In a flurry of flapping trench coat, Cas’ lips were against his own. Cas tasted like coffee and sweetness and perfection. Dean let himself be pushed down onto the bed and opened up for Castiel like the women had done as he had kissed them when he was younger. But this was nothing like that. A jolt of electricity ran through him and he was pretty sure at the rate of Castiel’s tongue, he was going to cum in his pants. Taking pride in the grunt of arousal from Cas, and those heavy lidded eyes, he brushed his hand backwards through Cas’ hair.

Best day ever.

 

Overall, he was gone for just more than 2 years. In the time he was gone he had bagged a cool $50,000, a few new friends, some new enemies and of course, Castiel.

  
_“In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade_   
_And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down_   
_And cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame_   
_I am leaving I am leaving but the fighter still remains.”_

 

Strumming the final guitar chords, he turned to look at the man himself. Same tan trench coat, same bright blue eyes, still getting used to the look of pure affection in his smile. Beside him, Gabriel and his girl Kali, staring at each other as he imagined Cas and himself often do.

This was the second bar he’d been requested to play at. Yeah, since the Roadhouse, he had gone almost viral.

And the best part...

A man afraid to fly caught a falling angel. 


End file.
